


Concealed Carry

by Tanaqui



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's tried several times before to find out where Ronon got his gun. So he's not really expecting an answer to his questions this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concealed Carry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SGAFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SGAFan/gifts).



"You know, Larrin's people had guns like that." John nods at the gun lying on the table between him and Ronon. Ronon's... not cleaning it, exactly. But doing some kind of equivalent maintenance.

Ronon looks up and catches John's eye for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he bends back to whatever he's doing to the gun.

John shakes his head. Isn't the first time he's asked Ronon about the blaster, about where he picked it up. Because more of the things would be damn useful. Looks like it probably won't be the last time he'll have to ask him either. And while they can maybe—maybe—trade with Larrin's people for some of them at some point in the future, John's all for finding a stash of them right now, if they can.

The very first occasion he asked Ronon about the gun was, of course, right after that session on the firing range, when Ronon showed him just how impressive the blaster could be. Ronon didn't say anything that time either, just gave John a wary look.

"Is it Satedan?" John pressed as they headed back to the mess hall, wondering if Ronon was just being protective of his planet and its technology.

"Nope." Ronon picked up his pace and marched off down the corridor ahead of him. John already knew better than to ask more questions just then.

But he's tried dropping hints about the gun every once in a while since. Ronon's given him a range of amused, exasperated or annoyed looks, but either doesn't answer or changes the topic. Though John has discovered, at least, after Ronon was dragged back to Sateda by the Wraith, that Ronon was speaking the truth about it not being Satedan: the weapons John saw there were nothing like Ronon's blaster.

But when John asks again, all Ronon says, with a grimace, is, "Took it."

John gives up after that. He guesses Ronon probably stole the gun on one of the world's he's been hunted on, and maybe doesn't want to lead John and the others back there in case it brings the Wraith back down on them. Or perhaps he took it from someone he had to kill to survive and, while the gun is too useful not to use, doesn't want to think about all the things he had to do in his long years Running. Something John can understand: there are things about his own past he wants left buried.

The click of something sliding back into place brings John out of his memories and back to the present. Ronon lays the gun down on the table between them, apparently done with seeing to it.

"There was a guy."

Ronon's words startle John. He lifts his gaze from the gun to his teammate's face, but Ronon isn't looking at him: he's still looking at the gun.

"Said he lived on a spaceship. Was born there. Got caught by the Wraith while he was planetside." Ronon's voice is low, matter-of-fact, like he's recounting a mission report—almost expressionless, but not quite. "We ended up on the same planet. Ran together for a while. Made a good team." Ronon's hands clench into fists. "Got killed on some backwater planet somewhere. Took a shot that was meant for me. I finished off the Wraith hunting us, but by the time I got back to him, it was too late." Ronon shrugs and picks up the blaster to holster it. "Took his gun. Wanted to use it to kill as many Wraith as I could." He looks up at John. "Now you know."

John nods. "Now I know."

Ronon holds John's gaze a moment longer and then gets up. Watching him leave the mess hall, John feels a soldier's empathy and understanding for his friend—and a little envy. But only a little. He touches the twisted and knotted threads he wears on his wrist: while he might wish for something of Holland's to carry with him, his own makeshift talisman for lost comrades will do.


End file.
